Confessions: He's The Rich Boy / He's My Soldier Boy

“Consider it done.”

“No way. I realize this isn’t the way you do things, Hayden, but when I agree to do a job,” she assured him, those intense eyes snapping green flames, “I do it. Now, you can stand there and argue with me all day long, but I’m really busy and I’d like to finish this room before I go home.”

“You’re a maid?” he asked, and saw her cringe slightly.

“Among other things. And right now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me...” Quickly she leaned over the tub and twisted on the faucets again. Water rushed from the spigot and she swished the last of the scouring soap down the drain.

“What other things?” he asked as she turned off the faucet.

Sliding him a glance that was impossible to read, she explained, “Oh, I have many talents. Scrubbing tubs and waxing floors and setting mousetraps are just a few.” She yanked off her gloves, and this time she dropped them into an empty bucket. Bending her head, she untied her bandanna and unleashed a tangled mass of red-brown curls that fell past her shoulders and caused his gut to tighten in memory. “Now, I’ve got to get home, but I’ll be back in the morning.”

“You don’t have to do any more—”

“Oh, yes I do,” she said firmly, and the determined line of her jaw suggested she was carrying a sizable chip on her slim shoulders. “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. I never leave a job unfinished—no matter who’s paying the bill.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out, Hayden,” she said, as if she were harboring a grudge against him—as if he had done her a severe injustice when she had been the one who had used him.

Seethingly indignant, she grabbed her mops, pails and supplies and walked briskly past him. Her flaming hair swung down her back and her jeans hugged her behind tightly as she bustled out of the room and clomped noisily down the stairs. Hayden was left standing between the bathroom and bedroom to wonder if she was going home to a husband or boyfriend.

He heard the front door click shut and moved to the window, where he saw her load her supplies into a trashed-out old Chevy, slide behind the wheel and then, without so much as a look over her shoulder, tromp on the accelerator. The little car lurched forward, and with a spray of gravel from beneath its tires, disappeared through the trees.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered again.

Well, at least she was gone. For the time being. He should be grateful for that. He reached for his duffel bag and a flash of light, a sparkle on the rim of the tub, caught his eye. He moved closer to inspect the glitter and saw the ring that she’d obviously forgotten. Frowning, he walked into the bathroom and picked up the tiny band of gold. A single blue stone winked up at him. Simple and no-nonsense, like the woman who wore it.

He wondered if this were a wedding band or an engagement ring, and told himself it didn’t matter. He’d take the damned piece of jewelry back to her and write her a check for services rendered as well as those not rendered. He didn’t need a woman hanging around right now, especially not a woman who, with a single scalding look, could set his teeth on edge and his blood on fire.

* * *

HAYDEN MONROE! BACK in Gold Creek! Nadine couldn’t believe her bad luck. She never should have agreed to work for the bastard, and she had half a mind to wring Aunt Velma’s long neck! But she couldn’t afford to say no to the sum of money that attorney Bradworth had offered. And she’d never expected to come face-to-handsome-face with Hayden again. She’d known, of course, that someone would be staying in the house, but she thought it was probably going to be rented or sold. She hadn’t expected Hayden. The last she’d heard about him, he’d moved to Oregon and was estranged from his father.

Ben had been right about Hayden and his dad. They were both cut from the same cloth—dangerously handsome, extremely wealthy; men who didn’t give a good goddamn about anything or anyone. Just money. That’s all they cared about. What was the saying? Fast cars and faster women? Whatever money could buy.

Hands clenched over the steering wheel, she mentally kicked herself. It was all she could do not to take him up on his offer and quit. But, in good conscience, she couldn’t tell him to take his job and shove it, as she’d already spent a good part of the money. And she didn’t want her two sons to lose out on the best Christmas they’d had in years because of her own stupidity.

“Damn, damn, damn and double damn!” she swore, her little car hugging the corners as she headed back to town. She frowned as she guided the Chevy beneath the railroad trestle bridge that had been a Gold Creek landmark for over a hundred years. Hayden Monroe! As handsome as ever and twice as dangerous. She steered through the side streets of town and stopped at the Safeway store for groceries. Christmas trees were stacked in neat rows near the side entrance, fir and pine trees begging to be taken home, but she didn’t succumb. Not yet. Not with the windfall she’d so recently received. Just in case she never finished the job. The trees would go on sale later. She picked up a few groceries, then climbed back into her car again, heading to the south side of Whitefire Lake.

She was irritated at having been caught by Hayden again, and was discouraged by the heady feeling she’d experienced when she’d stared into his blue eyes. But she was over him. She had to be. It had been years. Nearly thirteen years!

She only had to deal with him for a week or two. She rolled her eyes and bit her lower lip. Fourteen days suddenly seemed an eternity.

She had no choice, so she’d just make the best of it and avoid him as much as possible. She would simply grin and bear Hayden Monroe with his sexy smile, knowing eyes and lying tongue until the job was finished.

Then it was sayonara.

Veering off the road that circled the lake, she drove down a single lane that served as a driveway to several small cabins built near the shore. She slowed near the garage, a sagging building filled with cut cordwood and gardening supplies, and snapped off the ignition. Grabbing both sacks of groceries and her purse, she stepped onto her gravel drive. “Boys!” she sang out, not really expecting to hear a response as both bikes, usually dropped in the middle of the driveway, were nowhere to be seen and the raucous sound of their voices didn’t carry in the cool mountain air. “Boys! I’m home.”

Nothing.

Well, it was early. They were probably still pedaling from the sitter’s.

Juggling the groceries, she reached into her purse for her keys and opened the screen door, only to find that her sons had, indeed, been home from school. The back door wasn’t locked and book bags, sneakers and jackets were strewn over the couch and floor.

She left the groceries on the counter, then headed back outside. “John? Bobby?” she called again, and this time she could hear the sound of gravel crunching and bike wheels spinning.

She was carrying her mops, buckets and cleaning supplies into the house when she heard the sound of tires slamming to a stop.

“You’re a liar!” Bobby’s voice rang through the house, and Nadine walked to the window in time to see her youngest son, his lower lip thrust out stubbornly, throw a punch at his brother.

John, older than Bobby’s seven and a half years by a full eighteen months and taller by nearly four inches, ducked agilely away from Bobby’s wild swing and managed to step over Bobby’s forgotten bike. Wagging his wheat blond head with the authority of the elder and wiser sibling, John announced, “I don’t believe in Santa Claus!”

“Then you’re just stupid.”

“And you’re the liar.” John leered at his brother as Bobby lunged. Sidestepping quickly, John watched as Bobby landed with an “oof” on the cold ground near the back door.

Leaning down, John taunted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang them on—”

“Enough!” Nadine ordered, knowing this exchange would quickly escalate from an argument and a few wild punches to a full-fledged wrestling match. “Look, I don’t want to have to send you to your rooms. Bobby, are you okay?”

“We only got one room,” John reminded her.

“You know what I mean—”

“John’s makin’ fun of me,” Bobby wailed indignantly. A shock of red-blond hair fell over his freckled face as he looked to Nadine as if for divine intervention. “And I saw Santa Claus last year, really I did,” he said earnestly.

“Tell me another one,” John teased, sneering. “There ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus or those stupid elves or Frosty or Rudolph, neither!”

Bobby blinked hard. “Then you just wait up on Christmas Eve. You’ll see. On the roof—”

“And how am I s’posed to get there—fly?” John hooted, ignoring the sharp look Nadine sent him. “Or maybe Dancer or Vixen will give me a lift! Boy, are you dumb! Everything comes from Toys ‘R’ Us, not some stupid little workshop and a few lousy elves!”

“I said ‘enough!’” Nadine warned, wondering how she would survive with both boys for the two weeks of Christmas vacation that loomed ahead. Right now, her sons couldn’t get along and Nadine’s already busy life had turned into a maelstrom of activity. John and Bobby seemed hell-bent on keeping the excitement and noise level close to the ozone layer and they couldn’t be near each other without punching or kicking or wrestling.

“You’re not really gonna send us to our room, are you?” Bobby asked, biting on his lower lip worriedly.

“Well, not yet—”

“He’s such a dork!” John called over his shoulder as he found his rusty bike propped on the corner of the house. “A dumb little dork!”

“John—”

“Am not!” Bobby screamed.

But John didn’t listen. He peddled quickly down the sandy path leading to the lake. His dog, a black-and-white mutt named Hershel, streaked after him.

“I’m not a dork,” Bobby said again, as if to convince himself.